


Across the Hall

by evilauthoroverlords



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Mr. Ditkovich is the best dad, POV Third Person Limited, Peter and MJ have an unhealthy relationship, Picks up from end of Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 3, Stress Baking, Work In Progress, justice for Ursula
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilauthoroverlords/pseuds/evilauthoroverlords
Summary: Giant black webs still covered the buildings downtown, Pete had left the balcony door open again, her father hadn’t been able to pay to repair the water heater, and above all, Ursula Ditkovich was almost out of pecans.





	1. Prologue: I have ears like a cat. And eyes... like a rodent.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, Vsauce. Queue here. Just me this time, with my first solo fic! I present yet another “””minor project””” by me or Fluffy that got out of hand.  
> This fic will strive to answer the questions no one even thought to ask, such as “What happened to all those pies that Nelson and Murdock got in season one of Daredevil?” and “What happens next?” after watching Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 3.

Ursula Ditkovich swept the sand from the bottom step onto the lobby floor, aiming poorly and sending half of the grains spattering against her ankles. As she stooped to sweep up the pile, she wondered how Peter had managed to track in so much. 

The news channel had been beginning to assess the damage the Sandman had caused downtown when crunchy footsteps had sounded from the stairs. Peter’s gait.

She’d peeked out onto the landing. Sand had been clinging to Peter’s shoes and the wrinkles of his clothing.

“Were you at the ceremony?” she'd asked.

His eyes had darted up to her before creasing with his smile. “Taking pictures.”

He hadn’t been carrying his camera, Ursula realized as she finished sweeping up the pile of sand and stood with the help of the broom. She eyed his door upstairs, explaining to herself he’d probably dropped it in the chaos, or she wasn’t remembering correctly. Still, the sand-filled dustpan sat heavy in her mind as it was in her hand.

* * *

Two nights later, Ursula rolled over in bed for the thousandth time since laying down and pressed her ear against the pillow. Faint staticky voices and beeps were poking at her ears, forbidding her from falling asleep. Eventually, she swung her legs off the side of the bed and planted her feet on the ground, determined to tell her father to turn off the TV or stop whatever it was he was up to.

But when Ursula opened her door, she was met with a pitch-black apartment. There wasn’t even a thin sliver of light streaming from underneath Tato’s door, and the only sound coming from behind it were his rumbling snores. They were a familiar, almost soothing sound to her after twenty-one years of hearing them every night, so they weren’t what was keeping her up.

Her ears led her out onto the landing, where she stood with her arms crossed over her thin nightgown. The noise was coming from the other side of Peter’s door.

“Three Henry ten-eleven, I have a residence, seven-three-eight-one... 7-Adam to Central, responding to one... 642 Madison Ave...” came muffled voices between blurbs and static.

 _A police radio?_ wondered Ursula. What business did Peter Parker have with a police radio? 

Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to confront him about it, much less in her pajamas. Much less _these_ pajamas.

Ursula heard something unlatching and she darted back into her apartment and pressed her back against the cool wood of the door, her heart doing flips in her chest. When there weren’t any further sounds, she eased the door back open a crack. Peter’s doorknob hadn't so much as turned, and when the papers in his apartment started to rustle, she realized it must have been the door to his balcony that had unlatched.

The pounding of her heart had worn off by then, and it was replaced by a wide yawn. She had what she’d gotten up to get, the ability to fall asleep, so she filed Peter Parker away into the back of her mind and took catlike steps back to her bed.

* * *

“—and despite the webbing’s message, Spider-Man is yet to take the call to action, and has not arrived on scene,” is the first thing Hal Fishman said as soon as Ursula turned on the TV. “Eyewitnesses are doubtful of how long the webs will hold the taxi that Mary Jane Watson is being held hostage in.”

The remote dropped out of Ursula’s hand. Mary Jane? Did Peter know about this? She got up and dashed onto the landing, not bothering to close the door behind her. She’d heard Peter come up the stairs a few minutes ago, and she hated the thought that he might be sitting in his apartment blissfully unaware of his girlfriend’s danger.

“Peter?” she called as her fist thudded on the glass. “Peter! Do you know about Mary Jane?”

She persisted at this for a little while, her feet shuffling in a nervous dance and her voice straining further with every sentence. Eventually, she reached for the doorknob, found it missing, and instead heaved the door open with her shoulder.

She stumbled into the room, but there was no Peter to look up surprisedly. “Pete?” she called into the quiet. There was an empty chest laying open on his bed, but nothing else seemed out of place. 

Ursula ran her fingers through one of her pigtails and fidgeted in a circle. She could’ve sworn those were his footsteps she’d heard on the stairs. Where was he?

The balcony door rattled in the wind and she noticed it was ajar. She dashed through it. 

“Peter?"

The balcony was empty as the street below, which was an eerie sight. People must have been staying in because of what was happening downtown, or, knowing New Yorkers, they’d rushed to join the crowd. 

She turned to go back inside but couldn’t think of where to look for Peter next, so she paused for a moment on the balcony. The wind that whipped her pigtails around her shoulders also carried the scent of Peter’s apartment. Despite the mildew and hints of smoke from previous owners, it had Peter’s distinct smell as well: hints of Spandex, rubber, books, and cologne…

The sound of a crowd cheering “Spider-Man! Spider-Man!” on the TV speaker drifted through the open doorway across the hall. Jennifer Dugan said faintly, “He seems to have come out of nowhere to answer the prayers of the city. Just when all hope seemed to be lost.” 

Ursula’s eyes landed on the chest on Peter’s bed. It would fit a suit. A suit that smelled like Spandex and rubber. A suit that would explain the time he’d returned from the laundromat with a pink-dyed load of whites, despite never having worn red socks in his life. A suit that would explain the sand and the missing camera, the police radio, and all the times she hadn’t heard him leave but found him gone and the balcony door open. 

A curious smile resting on her face, she left his apartment as it had been, and her feet carried her to the recycle bin where she’d discarded a newspaper earlier that week. SPIDEY SCORES spanned the top of the page, and the photo was by someone named Eddie Brock, not Peter Parker. It showed Spidey’s half-unmasked, upside-down face pressed up against that of the chief of police’s daughter.

Half-unmasked. Ursula flipped the page upside-down. It wasn’t obvious, but as her fingertips traced the clean-shaven jaw and the shape of his chin and lips, she knew they looked familiar.

Ursula discarded the paper and returned to the living room, where Tato was now sitting on the couch, shaking his head. Ursula’s brow furrowed and she sat close to him, leaning forward.

“He’s no match for them both,” mumbled Tato.

 _Pete is every match for them and more_ , Ursula thought, but as she watched, she found herself agreeing with her father more and more. Peter trying to take down the Sandman looked like a fly pestering a dog. And he wasn’t the only enemy Peter had to worry about. Ursula chewed her thumbnail down to its quick and moved on to the next nail.

“It’s hard to believe what’s happening,” Jennifer Dugan said, “The brutality of it…”

Ursula tore her eyes away from the screen as the Sandman pummelled Peter with his boulder-like fist over and over and over again. Ursula could practically feel each blow taking the wind out of him. She stood and ran to the kitchen, grabbing the flour.

“What are you up to now?” asked Tato.

“I’m making cookies.” She struggled to keep her voice firm. “With nuts in them.” _For him, when he gets back._

Because he would get back—she knew he would. He would come up the stairs for the second time that night without going down them once, and he’d have a few cuts and a few bruises, but he’d be standing. 

The sound of an explosion emanated from the TV speakers. Tato swung his arm over the back of the sofa to look at Ursula. “Green goblin,” he said.

Ursula’s heart felt like it was being wrung out, and her hand froze mid-stir. “What did he do?” she asked, staring down at the dough. She pictured Peter’s charred body dropping to the ground, but she closed her eyes to the image.

“He blew up Sandman’s head.”

Ursula’s eyes darted up. “Sandman? You mean—He’s on Spidey’s side?”

“Guess so.” Tato shrugged and turned back around. 

Ursula took a deep breath and snatched the pecans back down off the shelf and dumped the rest in. A new picture filled her mind’s eye, one of Peter looking at her with his kind gaze, his soft hair combed, the top button of his shirt hiding the red suit underneath. With that image in her mind, her arm barely tired as she forced the spoon through the thick dough.


	2. He’s calling a woman.

Ursula rapped her knuckles on the bathroom door. “Tato? Will you hurry up?” She was eager to shower, having woken up covered in a thin sheen of sweat, her sheets tangled around her legs. Her father seemed to be getting more and more stingy with the air conditioning, even as it got hotter and hotter outside.

“Actually, it’s Peter.”

“Oh!” Ursula felt like slapping herself, even though his voice had sounded amused, not annoyed. “I’m so sorry, I’ll wait!”

“It’s fine, I’m done anyway.” The doorknob rattled and then Peter was standing there, dressed, but still toweling off his dripping hair. Ursula’s neck flushed with heat, and she tried to smooth her tangled hair.

He slung the towel over his shoulder. “That’s the third cold shower I’ve taken this week. And it’s Tuesday!” 

Ursula opened her mouth to respond, but downstairs the front door slammed shut. Tato tromped up the stairs, the plastic bags in his hand rustling.

“Where were you?” she asked.

Tato raised the bags and shook them. “Buying groceries we barely have money for.” He stopped to catch his breath on the landing. “Maybe if Peter here paid rent…”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’ve already paid you in advance, Mr. Ditkovich.”

Tato curled his lip. “So ungrateful. If you ask me, it should be _you_ giving _us_ cookies by now.”

“I like baking for you, Peter,” Ursula said quickly, and she meant it. Whenever Tato was out, there was nothing she liked more than to open a window and let in the noise of the city as she worked on some dough or another. She’d never used to do that before Peter had moved in; she’d only ever baked for Tato when he was home, and he didn’t like the window open. 

“Maybe you should start charging,” Peter said with wide eyes.

Ursula smiled weakly as she imagined anyone being willing to pay for treats she’d made.

“Now there’s an idea!” Tato said, a finger aimed at Peter. “If I’m not going to get any grandchildren out of this–” he rustled in the bags to hold up the flour– “I might as well turn a profit!”

“Tato!” Ursula’s cheeks burned as she followed him into their apartment and shut the door, leaving Peter alone on the landing.

“Why’d you have to say that about grandchildren? What’s the matter with you?” Ursula thought of the engagement ring on Peter’s finger, and the diamonds on its pair that sometimes glinted red-orange when Mary Jane ran her fingers through her hair.

Tato dumped the groceries onto the counter. “What’s the matter with me is that water heater! Can you believe he wants $500 to fix that little leak? I could buy a new one for that!”

Ursula snatched up the flour and put it in its place on the shelf. “Why don’t you?” Her voice was stern. “It’s _not_ just a little leak, and who knows how old that thing is?”

“Because,” Tato said, “we don’t have $500 to do that, or to fix it.” He sat down at the table like a sack of bricks. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “You know that as well as I do.” 

Ursula swallowed her contention and hovered quietly by the shelf, watching him.

He stood and put a warm hand on her shoulder, then slumped off to watch TV.

* * *

With her hair wrapped up in a towel, Ursula covered the final bare half of a rectangular cookie with yellow icing. Her hair was probably dry by now, but since starting, she hadn’t cared enough to bother breaking her focus on account of the towel.

With the batch done, she reached up and unwrapped her hair with icing-caked hands. Her blonde tresses flopped down onto her neck.

Having washed her hands in water cold enough to make her fingers stiff, brushed her hair, and summed up her courage, Ursula knocked on Peter’s door. Her other hand balanced a plate of the cookies. 

The door opened to reveal the fair face of Mary Jane. “Hi!” she said, her cheeks dimpling with her smile. She opened the door further. “Ursula, right?”

Ursula nodded, her smile fading a bit as she fiddled with the hem of her shirt. She suddenly wished she wasn’t quite so skinny, and had made something a bit more impressive than sugar cookies.

Peter stepped into view. He was wearing that soft gray sweater—at least, Ursula thought it looked soft. He looked nice—plain, but nice—but Ursula wondered if he wasn’t too warm. Maybe he was used to being warm from having to wear that Spidey suit under everything, or maybe it was a perk of his powers. Did spiders mind extreme temperatures? She wished she could ask him.

Peter’s eyes landed on the plate in Ursula’s hand, and the corners of his mouth turned up. “You made me more cookies?”

Ursula nodded, holding them out. “That’s the Ukraine flag on top. It’s August 23, Flag Day. It just started last year, so I’ve never actually been in Ukraine for it.”

Peter took the plate. “They look great, Ursula.”

“You must always be baking,” commented MJ. “It feels like every time I come over Peter has a new batch.” Her red hair swung with as she shook her head in disbelief.

Ursula shrugged. “It doesn’t take me that long.”

“Do you make them for a lot of people?”

“Um,” Ursula tucked her hair behind her ear. “No, mostly Pete.”

MJ smiled at her again, but Ursula shrunk under her gaze. Her eyes had turned cold, like green mint. Ursula remembered the SPIDEY SCORES article two months ago; Peter’s upside-down kiss with that girl. Did MJ not trust Peter’s faithfulness to her? Ursula looked over at him. In all his years living at the apartment, the only other females than MJ to set foot in his room had been Ursula and his Aunt May. And he'd never given Ursula so much as a second glance.

Ursula met MJ’s gaze again. She wanted to say something, anything, but the pause in conversation was already too long and lengthened every second. Besides, if MJ didn’t trust Peter, she certainly wouldn’t trust Ursula's defense of him.

"Okay, well, bye,” Ursula said. “Enjoy the cookies.” She attempted a smile and ducked back into her and Tato's apartment.


	3. Hi? What's 'hi?’ Can I spend it?

Red and blue flashed before J. Jonah Jameson’s eyes as he thumbed through Peter Parker’s photos. The words of that faker he'd fired a couple months ago, Buchanan—or maybe it had been Blakely—came to mind. 

“Photography is about lighting, composition, drama,” he’d said. Whatever it was that made a picture good, Parker had it. Not that Jameson would ever say that to his face. There was nothing that ruined a perfectly good employee like a big ego. Brooks had taught him that.

There was one element missing from Parker’s photos, though, and that was Spidey being anything but heroic. When Jameson got to the bottom of the stack, he  _ tsked _ his tongue and glanced up at the kid.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Jameson?” Parker sat up straighter in his chair.

Jameson suppressed a smile. He’d taken the bait.

“I have to admit, Parker,” he started, dividing his attention between Peter and lighting a cigar, “I was hoping today would be the day you actually brought in something good.”

He let the comment sit for half a second, watching Parker’s eyebrows crease, before blurting, “Spider-Man caught up in some first-rate scandal! Where are those pictures?”

Peter’s face relaxed. “I think you and I have different definitions of the word ‘good.’”

“Maybe,” said Jameson, “but I’m the one who’s paying you, right? So whose definition really matters here?” He tapped his cigar on the rim of his empty coffee mug. It was proving to be a worthy ashtray.

“Mr. Jameson,” Peter began. He could tell the kid was weighing his words, trying to be diplomatic. “No one’s ever gotten a scandalous picture of Spider-Man. Not an undoctored one, anyway. Do you ever wonder if that’s because he never does anything scandalous?”

“You’re an optimist. I can admire that.” Jameson still enunciated clearly with his cigar between his teeth. His ability to do so was one of the few things he prided himself on. “But I’m a realist.” He puffed his cigar. “Vigilantism  _ is _ a crime, which makes Spider-Man an insurgent! An outlaw! A troublemaking, crowd-stirring ruffian!”

Parker got halfway through rolling his eyes before catching himself. Jameson hardly noticed, as an idea had just struck him. He imagined this must have been what it felt like when Gutenberg had first thought up the printing press. He ripped his cigar out of his mouth and said, “I’ve got it. I think it’s high time the people heard the voice of Spider-Man. ‘Spidey Speaks.’ How’s that for a headline?” He swept his hand through the air, a trail of smoke from his cigar following it.

“I- Um-” Peter stuttered.

“A stroke of genius, sir,” came Hoffman’s bleat from the office doorway.

“Shut up, Hoffman,” said Jameson without batting an eye. The rattle of the closing door came promptly after. “Parker, tell Spider-Man to come here, let me interview him. Scratch that—interrogate him.”

“I- I’m not going to tell Spider-Man what to do.”

It was a lame excuse, and they both knew it. Jameson doubled down. “Then I will. Tell me who he is. You know, don’t you?”

Parker shook his head. “You’ll twist anything he says.”

“So you do know!”

Parker squirmed in his seat. “No, I-”

Jameson held up his hand. “I’m not looking to publish his identity, if that’s what you’re worried about. All I want is the interview.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Jameson could almost hear the cigar smouldering in his hand. He squinted. “What is it, Parker? You know something. I can smell it on you.”

The kid stood suddenly, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Jameson.”

Jameson pursed his lips, but nodded. He could play the long game any day of the week. “All right, Parker. But if you’re not going to give me information on Spider-Man, then at least come back with some better pictures than these.”

The tension in Parker’s shoulders relaxed, and he moved for the door.

“Seriously!” Jameson called to his back. “My neighbor’s highland terrier could take better photos with its eyes closed!”

Parker smiled vaguely as he shut the publisher’s office door. 

* * *

Ursula fit the rolls of dough into the pan, her hands as coated with flour as the pampushka buns themselves. She could almost feel her mother’s hands guiding hers like they had the first time she’d done this. It must have been on a Christmas Eve; Mama hadn't bothered to make these more than once a year, even with her passion for baking. Ursula had woken up craving them, though, and hadn’t had anything better to do with her day. It was laughable, really, how uneventful her life was compared to Peter’s.

“That one’s the runt,” she whispered to herself, noticing she hadn’t divided the dough equally as she brushed the egg wash over the top. 

The heat of the oven wafted into her face when she opened it to set the pan inside. She hated that little oven, as familiar as she was with it—it never kept the right temperature. She was glad she didn’t have to worry about what number it would do on these buns, because Tato and his friends would eat anything she put in front of them. Of course, Peter would too, but she cared what he thought of her.

She sighed and leaned back against the counter, smoothing an eyebrow with the back of her wrist. A constant flow of Ukrainian came from the table where Tato and his friends were playing poker. She watched the chips slide around, not comprehending much except that her father was losing money. She huffed and averted her gaze, angry at him, but more angry at herself because she knew she wasn’t about to say anything to stop him. 

She pulled out her mother’s recipe to check how much garlic to chop up. The brown construction paper was wrinkly from water stains and dusted with flour, so much so that the black words were almost illegible in some parts. 

Her mother’s handwriting reminded Ursula of her even more than the pictures hanging around the apartment. Thin but not spindly, the letters were short and written with a determined hand—perhaps too determined, for several words in the recipe had been scribbled out and rewritten. Ursula could remember a time when Tato used to say Ursula had inherited that determination. 

_ I must have left that in Ukraine. At Mama’s grave _ . Ursula crushed the first clove of garlic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never expected to write any of this fic from JJJ's point of view, but here we are, and I'm so glad I did.


	4. Ah, it’s no big deal.

Ursula pulled off her rubber gloves and tossed them in the cupboard under the sink alongside the bleach and sponges. Its door shut with a _thwack_. At the light switch, she turned to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

To say the ground floor bathroom looked nice would have been a stretch. “Noticeably improved” would have been more accurate. Livable, even with its peeling, once-white paint and cracked tile. But there was nothing in the little cupboard beneath the sink to remedy either of those.

When Ursula opened the door to the lobby, voices trickled down from the landing, from just outside Peter’s apartment. She halted, her curiosity overpowering the tug at the back of her mind telling her not to eavesdrop. 

“And you are…?” Peter’s voice was croaky. It was almost 10:30, but Ursula supposed if anyone had a right to sleep in, it was him. She often wondered how he found time to sleep at all with his nocturnal habits.

“I’m Adam,” came the other voice. It was male, but not very deep. “I… Well, you’re Spider-Man’s photographer, right?”

Peter sighed. “Yes.”

“Well, I wrote this…” There was a sound of crinkling paper. “I was hoping there might be some way you could get it to him.”

“Him? You mean you want me to act as Spidey’s mailman?”

Ursula had to strain to hear the other man’s response. “He saved my life when I tried to jump off a building.”

There was a pause, and the paper crinkled again. “Look…” Peter started. He was floundering for a name. _Adam_ , Ursula silently reminded him, squeezing the doorknob.

“Aaron,” said the other voice.

Ursula squinted.

“Aaron,” said Peter. “I’ll do my best to get this to him, all right?”

“Thank you. It means a lot.” Footsteps approached the stairs.

Peter’s door started to creak, but then he said, “Oh, Aaron?”

The footsteps paused.

“I don’t know how you got my address, but I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself,” said Peter.

Aaron chuckled lightly. “Yes, sir.”

Once Peter’s door had clunked shut and the thudding of footsteps resumed above her, Ursula stepped out to catch a glimpse of the visitor. At the foot of the stairs, she stood aside to let him pass.

He looked younger than her, with dark curls that intruded his freckled face. His jeans were held up by a black belt with a square silver buckle. There was something engraved on it—a symbol. Ursula didn’t have time to get a closer look before he brushed past her, mumbled, “Sorry,” and stepped outside. Ursula turned to watch him with her hand on the banister until he was out of sight. 

He did look more like an Aaron than an Adam. She must have misheard him the first time.

* * *

“Christopher Walken!” 

Mandy pushed past a couple of other stagehands and cast members to be heard. “Do him!” she said breathlessly.

“Well,” said Cal, taking on the accent, “that’s too easy. It’s too easy, you know.”

Mary Jane smiled and secured her purse on her shoulder. She stood next to Mandy, who had been pushed to the back again. They were part of a small, tight crowd that had congregated on the sidewalk outside the backdoor of the theatre. 

“Every minute he’s galavanting is another minute our city is at risk!” Cal was saying now. “I want him and his webs hung out to dry!” 

MJ had missed the request, but she didn’t need it to know who Cal had been impersonating. She laughed freely, shaking her head as he puffed on an imaginary cigar.

“Why do you think he’s just a stagehand?” Mandy murmured. It took a moment for MJ to realize the question had been directed at her because Mandy was still craning to see Cal over their coworkers’ heads. She lowered back down on her heels and looked at MJ, adding, “It seems a shame for all that talent to go to waste.”

“I see what you mean,” said MJ.

“I mean, it’s uncanny. It’s like he’s possessed by the ghosts of a thousand well-known people.”

“I wonder if he’s really from Queens,” MJ said, struggling to keep her expression serious. “Maybe his real accent isn’t his real accent at all.”

Mandy’s eyes widened to show their whites, bright against her brown skin and black lashes. “Ooo! Conspiracy!”

MJ laughed, but her smile quickly became subdued as she watched Cal. As the minutes passed, she understood more and more Mandy’s incredulity that he was only a stagehand. He flowed seamlessly from impression to impression, his body language stiffening and loosening appropriately. 

Mary Jane couldn’t remember the last time someone had seen her talents as worthy of a higher position than the one she currently had. Even though Mandy and she had quickly taken a liking to each other, she had never once questioned why MJ was an understudy to the lead, not the lead herself.

With a pang she watched Cal look down at an imaginary script and smooth back his bangs, his hand lingering by his temple. “Should I deliver this line the same way as Jess?” he muttered. When he looked up at MJ, he lowered his eyebrows and smiled as though realizing he’d spoken aloud. “Oh, never mind, I’ll figure it out.” His hand dropped to his shoulder, and he turned his attention back to the imaginary script.

Most of the crowd turned to smile at her, except those who were too enraptured by Cal’s performance. MJ broke from Cal’s gaze and forced a laugh, but couldn’t help but worry that this short, stringy, towheaded man made a better Mary Jane Watson than she did.

A warm hand landed on Mary Jane’s shoulder. She whipped around and looked up at the squarish face of John Jameson III.

“Good first couple weeks back?” he asked.

She nodded, perhaps too vigorously. “Everybody’s great to work with.”

John peered past her to where Cal stood, more visible now that the crowd had thinned out. John raised an eyebrow at MJ, an unspoken question.

“Oh.” She glanced behind her. “That’s Cal. Showing off.”

John nodded slowly, dividing his attention between her and Cal’s Marty McFly impression. “One of the actors?”

“No, actually. Just a stagehand. Can you believe it?”

“Huh,” grunted John. He raised his eyebrows, but he seemed to have spent up his interest. “Well, I’m here to give you a ride home, if you like.” He shifted the black leather briefcase he was carrying to his other hand and pulled his keys out of his pocket.

“Oh! That’s—” started MJ, but before she could continue, Cal approached them. Their coworkers had completely dispersed. 

Cal offered his hand to John to shake. “Calvin Collins. Are you John Jameson?”

“The third.” John had to transfer the briefcase between his hands again in order to receive Cal’s handshake, and Cal’s eyes tracked its movement. For a split second, his mouth twitched from its decorous smile, but he was so composed the next moment MJ was certain she’d imagined it.

“Nice to meet you, moonwalker. And you–” Cal pointed a finger at Mary Jane– “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They watched him walk away and get into a brick-orange car. Its front bumper was missing. As she watched him turn the ignition, MJ wondered what he was like when he wasn’t putting on a front. She wondered if that walk to his car had been in his own stride, or if he’d known they’d been watching him.

With John swinging his keys on his finger and muttering “moonwalker” beside her, MJ walked to his car. Its bumper was intact, and the whole thing was colored a tasteful navy blue.

Acting was a fitting career choice for her. Even right now, she knew what to say to act like she was listening to whatever John was talking about. She’d been acting her whole life: putting on a brave face for her mother, her classmates, her teachers….

There was only one person she could think of who she let her front down with, and that was Peter. Of course, there had been Harry—

“Mary Jane?” John’s voice wrenched her out of her thoughts.

“What?” She lifted her head from where it had been resting on the window.

“I asked what you had for lunch and you said ‘yeah.’”

MJ chuckled. “Yeah… Sorry, I must be tired or something.”

“Or something,” John murmured.

“Hmph.” MJ rolled her eyes, and then her eyes landed on the briefcase laying on the seats between them. Embossed into the bottom right corner was a symbol of a lizard.

She chuckled and ran her fingers over it. “A chameleon?”

John glanced over. “Oh. Yup.”

“That your spirit animal?” she prodded.

His expression softened. “Not a personal choice. It’s a thing for NASA.”

“Top secret, right?”

John gripped the wheel and shifted in his seat. “No... not top secret.”

“Just a little secret?”

He grinned. “It’s just something I’ve been workshopping for them.”

“The end goal being?” She leaned in toward him.

“The idea is to make it so a human could go without oxygen. Like in space, or underwater.”

“What, like a surgery?”

“Nothing like that. There’s a belt in here that lets you change your appearance. Temporarily,” he said, reaching between the seats to pat the briefcase.

“So, you could shapeshift into me with it?”

“Theoretically, yes. I don’t think I would, though.”

“No?”

“It would just be wrong, somehow.”

“How scrupulous of you. Speaking of which,” she turned to look at him, “it’s kind of you to do this for me. Not just the ride home—getting me back on Broadway and everything.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“You’re not worried we’ll make headlines? ‘Jilted colludes with jilter?’”

John gave her a look that said _really?_ “You’re forgetting whose father says which headlines go through.”

MJ shook her head. “Of course. I forgot there wasn’t any room in the _Bugle_ to do anything other than incriminate Spider-Man,” she goaded.

“All right,” he said, drawing out the words as though he’d been waiting a long time for an opportunity to say what he was about to, “I for one am glad he represents the other side of the argument.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I mean, everyone accepts Spider-Man so easily as the city’s hero. But how can we know his motives? How do _we_ know he’s not some out-of-towner who has it out for us?”

“You don’t know he’s _not_ a well-meaning New Yorker.”

“You don’t know he _is_ ,” said John defensively, and MJ struggled to contain a smirk at this. 

“Well, you can blame that on my _unthinkable_ predisposition to trust people who save my life.”

She had touched a nerve. Whatever attempts she made to subvert it, Spider-Man consumed their conversation for the rest of the drive. By the time John finally let her off at her apartment with a chilly, "This is your stop," she couldn't help but think the apple didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to the Jamesons.


End file.
